


judgement day

by mumagi



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Death, Friends With Benefits, Genuinely terrible pillow talk, Hypocrisy, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nostalgia, Power Imbalance, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, alternative title what if crimson flower was really homoerotic but not where it mattered, unpleasant narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24878842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumagi/pseuds/mumagi
Summary: Dimitri is a king begging for a weapon. Sylvain is a perfectly fine dagger sitting unsheathed in front of him, but Dimitri will probably wax poetic about propriety and rank and all that shit if he says so. He takes Dimitri’s hand and presses a kiss to the bare skin under his glove instead, adds a graze of teeth that makes Dimitri gasp before pulling away. He likes predictability. Keeps everyone safe.-CF route. Dimitri topples under the weight of the future. Sylvain is stuck to the past.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 26
Kudos: 91





	judgement day

**Author's Note:**

> this is somewhat a result of me wanting to characterize the childhood friends in a way that i didn't want to throw in a ditch somewhere. sorry to the dimitri/felix gang, but the ship is one sided in this. 
> 
> additional cw  
> -sex as self-harm  
> -references to suicide/suicidal ideation  
> -dimitri's general unpleasantness  
> -sylvain's general unpleasantness  
> -a very vague implication of underage/csa

Sylvain stands last in line as they tramp through the underbrush. The thawed dirt glows a warm rust as the sun leans further and glares into his eyes. Dimitri casts his shadow from the front. He is the prince and has to lead the rest of them. He makes sure they don’t get lost even though he doesn’t know the pines of Fraldarius any better than the rest of them. It’s usually Sylvain who ends up nudging them back on path, or Glenn if he has the time. 

Felix stands close behind, a barrier between him and Ingrid who thought that it would be funny to throw burrs at his head. Dimitris straw hair still bears a few snags from where Sylvain had to tug the things out. Ingrid's cheeks are still rosy from her laughing fit, completely shameless. 

Sylvain is the biggest and the oldest, so he gets to bring up the rear. The role of the protector is still a foreign concept to him. He knows, theoretically, that it is what he was made to do. Even if at home he is always the weakest, and the people there can sling him around like a doll if they want. It feels a little more real to him now, watching over the other three pick their way through the roots. He can keep them safe. 

“Ow!” Felix cries as Ingrid’s fist in his braid tugs him back. “Stop touching my hair! You’re getting it gross!” 

Ingrid shakes her head, pigtails beating the sides of her cheeks like a drum. “I’m not gross! Tell him I’m not gross Dimitri!” 

Dimitri looks back with his eyebrows furrowed. He’s started doing that when he thinks hard. He told Sylvain once that his father does that when he thinks about something for a long time, and everybody falls silent until he starts talking again. Sylvain’s father scratches at his chin when he thinks. If he’s angry then his forehead will wrinkle and that’s when Sylvain knows to leave. Lambert is the king and Sylvain is old enough to understand the weight that comes with that, but his father is a thundercloud, the fires that burn at the mountains at night. Sylvain tugs at his hair when he thinks instead. 

“You’re kind of gross Ingrid,” Dimitri says sadly, like it’s hurting him too. “I saw you pick your nose.” 

“No I didn’t! It was itchy so I scratched it!” 

“Were you really picking your nose?” Sylvain chimes in from the back. “That’s gross.”

She still hasn’t let go of Felix’s hair, and it pulls tight in her hand as she turns to glare at him. “Don’t listen to him! He’s a liar!” 

Dimitri looks at him with big wobbly eyes and Sylvain chuckles. “Dimitri can’t lie. I saw the chef corner him after he stole a plum and he just rolled over like a dog.”

“I’d steal a plum,” Ingrid announces, swinging Felix’s ponytail like she’s holding a hand. “I’ve never had one before.” 

“Yeah…” he looks at Felix, who is pouting as much as his face can allow. “You’re lucky it’s a bit warmer here. You get all sorts of cool trade. No one ever comes up North.” 

“‘Cause it’s scary! They might die!” Ingrid cries.

Sylvain shrugs. “I live there and I’m still kicking.” 

“Can you stop!” Felix yells as he twists around, beating at Ingrid’s arm. “You’re being so annoying!” 

“Ow! Stop! What if your crest activates and you break me in half! Glenn will kill you!” 

Felix pummels her harder. “Glenn won’t kill me! Shut up!” 

“Sylvain, make him stop!” 

“You started it!”

“Did not!”

“Yeah you did!”

“You’re gonna fall if you don’t watch where you step” Sylvain warns, eyeing the gnarled roots spreading across the trail, but it registers late as Felix trips and hops a few steps before landing square on Dimitri’s back and dragging Ingrid down with him. 

The chaos kicks up a cloud of dust that catches at his throat as he crouches down to assess the damage; Ingrid has finally let go of Felix’s braid that now carries a thin layer of dull brown, and the two of them are dusting off their sleeves and grumbling. Dimitri picks himself up gingerly and wobbles as he stands. Even as they start moving forward again, he lags behind and keeps his mouth shut. Dimitri always gets quiet when he’s upset, and the way he’s biting his lip as his eyes water tells Sylvain everything he needs to know. 

“Hey,” he whispers as he leans in. “Are you okay?” 

The way Dimitri nods while blinking back tears shouldn’t make him happy, but he’s pretty proud of himself for guessing how he’d act. He stops and crouches down, motioning for Ingrid and Felix to shoo before turning back to Dimitri. 

“C’mon, you can tell me,” he says quietly, like the way he’s seen Glenn or the Duke act with Felix when he gets all weepy. 

Dimitri sniffles before soundlessly turning over his hands, palms skinned a deep pink with pebbles and pine needles stuck in. Sylvain hisses in a show of sympathy even though it’s hardly the worst thing he’s ever seen. For someone so strong Dimitri can be a real wimp. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” he frowns. Dimitri rubs his eyes with his sleeve before finally speaking.

“Father and Gustave say I shouldn’t cry over minor injuries,” his voice warbles. The way he parrots their speech pinches awkwardly. “It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt much.” 

“Seriously? You’re only seven. You’re supposed to cry all the time.” He stands and shuffles Dimitri over to a fallen log, where he plops down like a sad, blonde slug. “I mean, I don’t cry anymore, but thats different.” 

“Why?” Dimitri looks up with big eyes. 

“Huh?” he asks, tugging out his waterskin. “Oh, cause I’m older.” He says it easily, without tripping over any of the syllables like he used to. Lying sticks at his skin like a rough wool shirt, but he’s pretty good at it. “This is gonna sting.” 

Dimitri sucks in a breath at the trickle of water, but doesn’t say anything else. The dust caked on his palms runs off in a thin stream of brown and darkens the dirt by his feet. He brushes out the pebbles with his thumb, Dimitri’s small hand a warm weight in his. 

“Alright,” he announces, popping the cork back in his waterskin. “Let's go back to the manor and get the Duke or someone to heal you up.” He holds out his hand, and Dimitri sniffles a bit before slinking off the log. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” he says quietly, hugging close to his side as they make their way to Ingrid and Felix. 

“Really? Is that why you’re still sad?” Dimitri nods, making his weird hair flop around. “I won’t be leaving for another few days.” 

“That’s not a long time.” And he’s right. The time between now and his arrival back home feels eternal and tiny all at once, for different reasons than Dimitri. He wouldn’t get it at all though, so he won’t talk about it. 

“Don’t get so sad. I’ll always be there for you, even if I’m not… here.” Dimitri pulls a face, making Sylvain laugh. “Sorry, that was stupid.” 

“...You don’t mean it?” 

“What? No, I do! I just sounded dumb, thats all,” he rushes to make Dimitri stop doing those big sad eyes at him. “I’ll always be around to take care of you, that's what I meant. Even when you’re king.” 

“Alright,” Dimitri hums, wiping away the snot at his nose with the hem of his sleeve. “Promise?” 

“Yeah, okay,” he laughs. “I promise. Do you wanna swear on our pinkies too?” 

“No, that’s okay.” Dimitri’s nose wrinkles, before he breaks out into a small smile that he flashes back at Sylvain before running to the others. Sylvain hangs back to check that he doesn’t trip, and then he runs off too. 

* * *

Dimitri requests his presence at the capital three years into the war. His father is begrudging, though only mildly so. They are orders from the king, after all, even if it is framed as a request. The writing is clearly not Dimitris own hand, and Sylvain cannot tell if the order came from him at all. Anything could be an order so long as it has the right wax seal on the envelope. Sylvain rides from Gautier at dawn. 

He meets him at the gates. The hair on the back of his neck stands. A beast waits for the right moment to strike. Sylvain tends to trust his instincts. They’ve kept him alive this long. 

“I like the hair,” he joked, fluffing the curls threatening his own shoulders. “You could’ve just said that you missed me.”

“I hope your journey was well,” Dimitri said, because he wasn’t saying anything at all. 

In theory, Fhirdiad is not a cage. He has near to full reign of the castle grounds, barring the king's suites. That suits him just fine. The city could almost be called pleasant. He makes a beeline for the taverns almost every night, because what else would the Gautier heir do? His place on the council is not so demanding that he would be kept working after hours. If it were, he would not either way. There’s safety to be had in lowered expectations, comfort in routine. 

The taverns are lively. There’s something about war that makes people eager, a little more hungry than usual. There’s a lady who taps her nails against the wood grain of the table when she talks, another completely fascinated with his hair. One insists they have a connection before she even drags him into bed. Disgust is an easy thing to swallow down. He always returns to his suite before morning. 

Dimitri is hollow. He marches the halls the way a wolf stalks the border of its territory, the heels of his boots striking hard against the heavy lined floors of the castle. The creases of the cloak he’s taken to wearing fall knife-sharp over his hunched shoulders, crawling after his boots as he walks and disturbing the dust caught in the carpeting. For all intents and purposes he is the king, yet Sylvain is acutely reminded of a corpse swinging from a noose. Shame he can’t ask anyone else to see if his hunch is true. 

The war council itself brings a new flavour of monotony. Progress on either side of the war is rare to make, so more often than not the members take to bickering between themselves for a scrap of entertainment. No one was particularly happy to see the son of Gautier at the table, dithering idiot that he is. He wasn’t happy to be there either. They can call it even. 

Tasks are delegated to him, usually the ones no one wants. About every month or so he receives a hefty stack of paper filled to the brim with reports on grain, food lines,  _ another shortage in Galatea, surprise surprise,  _ army provisions,  _ so-and-so scouted the Eastern border and found no movement, good for us.  _ Afterwards once he’s run through the whole lot he gets to divvy it all up and send it off to whatever unlucky saps made bureaucracy a staple in their life. Almost makes him wish for a fight. He doesn’t care about battle, not as much as Felix or Ingrid, but  _ Saints _ this shit is boring. 

Three months into his new job he is handed a list of deserters, which isn’t too special in and of itself. There usually aren’t many, because Faerghus is a country that trains its children for loyalty above all else, but there are a few lucky ones that have the sense to escape. He thought about it himself once, before the desire crumbled like an ancient scrap of paper. It settles at the bottom of his stomach. Chokes on a fantasy he once had. 

The messenger is unremarkable, mousy hair, thin nose, and a jittery foot that must constitute as a nervous tic.. He sees her eyeing him up as he reads, which means he’s got a date for the night. Small mercies. 

_ Cecile Ann-Marie, 17 _

_ Aubrey Bowell, 23 _

_ Calum Andrew Belmont, 19 _

_ Annette Fantine Dominic, 20, House of Dominic _

Mercies of all shapes and sizes. Mercy. Mercedes. She probably went with Annette. Those two were joined at the hip. She was from the Empire, wasn’t she? Shame. He thinks he might’ve liked her. 

_ Ludmilla Erwood, 32 _

_ Felix Hugo Fraldarius, 21, House of Fraldarius _

Mercy. Mercy killing. End of a sword. Lop off his head. Hang up the guts. Parade the body through the streets. Stuff the body and roast it for fun. 

The paper is a little singed at the edges, but weighs down like a brick as he makes his way to Dimitri’s study. Bash his head in with a rock. Eye for an eye. Somewhere else Felix drags a whetstone across the spine of his sword. 

Light spills in through the windows at the left and casts onto the dark ornate furniture of the room. Dimitri stands at the wall, slightly hunched as if the cloak on his shoulders was backed with mail. The Duke startles at his entry. There is another man with red hair that only acknowledges his presence with a raise of his eyebrow. He vaguely recalls him from their academy days, but not much beyond that.

“Annette?” Dimitri says slowly as if her name was a path to take leisurely breaks on. “I cannot imagine her betraying the Kingdom.” Behind him, the knight clenches his fist for a solitary moment before returning to his former state. 

“There is a chance Mercedes has deserted as well. I can’t imagine Annette leaving without her.” 

Dimitri’s head hangs low. “This is sad news. Is that all?” 

The air in the room grates at his skin the moment his name leaves his mouth. The Duke’s face contorts on a dime, demonic and completely unlike the kind-tempered man he had seen heal his son’s knees. Faerghus is a house of wolves in the shape of humans. The room will tear itself to shreds before the end of the list. 

“Your Majesty” Rodrigue begins, his hair whipping around as he turns to face Dimitri. “House Fr-” 

The crack in the wall Dimitri’s fist creates doubles his outstretched arms and stops shy of the window frame. His hair is a mop obscuring his face, shoulders hunched and hands clenched as if there was something clawing inside him ready to burst forth. 

“Sylvain,” he says, calm as death. 

His instincts beg for him to run, shakes his shoulders and screams for safety. Dimitri’s hands will make a pretty necklace otherwise. 

He stays put. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Is that all?” It is not a question. 

“There is nothing more to report.” He swallows. “If you will excuse me.” Dimitri does not respond. No one acknowledges him. They are all caught in place and waiting to be framed. Sylvain’s feet carry him out before his mind catches up with him. 

He finds himself at a window. The elegant glass captures the edge of the southern gate and the white flecks in between. There’s a small ledge in between the heavy velvet curtains and the frame. The curtains twist in his hands. He used to come here a long time ago. Used to swaddle himself in the alcove when the pall of heavy steps around the castle terrified him to the point where he couldn’t breathe. The air smells like smoke.

Somewhere Felix stands in the Empire, drawing his sword in preparation to slice them all to thin ribbons. Presents it to Edelgard as a token of loyalty. Looks to the left of Dimitri as he cuts out his tongue. Faerghus is full of wolves, and he’ll kill every single one of them. 

  
  


* * *

Dedue reflects a burgundy smudge in the flickering light of the single white candle they both share in the study Sylvain had claimed for himself when he first arrived. He picks at his cuffs as he reads over the reports they were given, eyes darting left and right down the page. He had admitted that he did not care much for battle tactics, but found he had a mind for provisions and trading lines. The reports are not why he is antsy to the point where the stitching is coming undone. Sylvain would wager a guess that the problem starts with a ‘D’ and ends with an ‘I’. 

“Coin for your thoughts?” he flicks his thumb. 

Dedue sighs and rustles his papers. “I would rather complete the task at hand.” 

“C’mon,” he smiles. He wonders how it comes out in the light. Ghoulish, probably. Wolves all around. “I can read and listen at the same time.” 

“I suppose that is why you were always the top performer in class,” Dedue says. If the lighting was a little brighter he would think it was a joke. 

“If I want to.”

Dedue does not reply, and the sound of paper cutting across itself resumes. Sylvain marks it down as a lost cause before he speaks. 

“I am… Concerned for His Majesty. I have not seen him like this in a long time.” 

He isn’t wrong. Felix’s betrayal leaves Dimitri open and rotting as he picks with his claws at the bloody hole he left in his gums. As much as Sylvain is an idiot, he knows the way people look when they want something, and Dimitri spills desire like an overfull glass. “War’s taking its toll, eh?” 

“Precisely. With Felix’s recent betrayal, even more so.” His eyelids sag, looking unimaginably weary as he shuffles his papers into a neat stack. 

“You’d never liked Felix, did you?” he chuckles. “No worries, you can talk shit about him here. I do it all the time.” 

The corner of Dedue’s mouth crooks before he shakes his head. “I was not particularly fond of him, no.” 

“He was a little shit, wasn’t he.” He was, from the moment Sylvain met him when he was three years old and clinging to his father’s cape like an odd bug. He could still be, but Sylvain will never know. “I think I hate him a bit too. Nowadays, anyway.” 

Dedue’s eyebrows raise, from what Sylvain can make out in the light. “You were childhood friends. I imagine you would take his betrayal quite hard.” 

Sylvain tugs at his hair, looking somewhere around the reports in front of him. “Yeah, so Dimitri’s taking it even worse. You should have seen him as a kid, the way he was with Felix. They were inseparable.” 

“I am doing what I can to ease his burdens, and yet…” 

“Normally I’d say to take it easy, but if Dimitri loses it we’ll be fucked.” 

“Indeed,” Dedue sighs.

“Hey, listen,” he shuffles in his chair. “How about I help a bit too? That way you can get some rest but Dimitri’s head won’t roll clean off his shoulders while you aren’t looking. It’s perfect.” 

Dedue blinks flatly. “I do not think His Majesty would want to pick up women with you.”

But what a sight that would be. “And men, credit where credit is due. But no, nothing like that. I was friends with him too, you know. I might be able to get into that noggin of his,” he grins. ‘Sides, I’m banned from most of the local taverns.” 

“You are doing an awful job of convincing me.”

“I am worried about you too though. You and Mercedes were close, yeah? That, and Dimitri…” 

Dedue sags, threading his hands through silver hair. “I suppose nothing I could say would stop you.”

“Great, great.” He leans back in his chair, giving Dedue a wink. “Drink a ton for me, alright?”

“This cannot turn out well,” he sighs, and buries his face in his hands.

* * *

Three nights to the day Dimitri’s chamber door rings dull against his fist, the only sound in the otherwise deserted hallway. The lack of guards is strange. Sylvain could have a knife up his sleeve and no one would be around to stop him save for Dimitri himself. Not that the idea isn’t too much of a stretch, belly of the beast and all that. Dimitri could tear him in half. 

“Sylvain.” Dimitri opens the door a crack, looking positively decrepit. “Why are you here?”

“Your Majesty! Just the man I was looking for!” Nevermind that he was knocking on his chamber doors. “Not happy to see your oldest friend?” 

“It is late.” His eyes narrow. “What do you want?” 

“Am I not allowed to check up on a dear friend?” 

“I cannot recall a time when you did anything without some ulterior motive.” 

He makes his smile drop. “Ouch. You’ve gotten awfully perceptive, haven’t you? There was a time when you couldn’t spot a lie if it pissed on your leg.” 

Dimitri’s scowl darkens, the wrinkle in between his eyebrows growing deeper. “If you do not have anything worthwhile to say, then you should leave.” 

“Alright, sorry. I was talking with Dedue the other day and he mentioned he was concerned about you. Being the type of guy I am, I decided to drop by and check up on you.” He steps in. 

“Did he say that?” he raises his eyebrows, softening a touch. “Rest assured, I am perfectly fine.” 

“You haven’t been getting enough sleep, Your Majesty. Everyone’s worried about you.” 

Dimitri sighs, some unimaginable mass weighing down his shoulders and dragging down his eyelids. “Sleep is a luxury I cannot afford.”

“I know a surefire way to knock you out” he punctuates with a wink. Dimitri stares flatly. 

“I should not be drinking.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Sylvain chuckles, a touch lighter than the one he normally uses. Dimitri carries himself like a hound on the end of a leash, uptight and vicious with a beaten-down edge. Sylvain is prepared for the very good chance that he might bite.

Dimitri looks a bit lost, eyebrows raising as he considers Sylvain in front of him. “And what is it that you have in mind?” 

“Never thought you’d ask,” he drawls. “Listen, I wanna make you feel good, help everyone out. Whaddya say?”

“And that entails…?”

He flicks at the lacing of Dimitri’s trousers, revelling in the way his eyes dart down as a light flush spreads across his cheeks. “I’m sure you have an idea.” 

“You should not be doing this” he warns, heedless of the blood rushing to his face. 

“This isn’t about me. You’re allowed to say no, yeah? Say the word and I’ll walk out and we never have to talk about this again.” 

Dimitri swallows. “You truly believe that this will fix everything.”

Dimitri imagining that he’s enough of an idiot to think that whatever great burden he’s carrying will magically disappear with a good fuck pleases him far more than he can say. “I hate to imply that my talents are being overstated, but no. Though it will get you to loosen up for a good bit.”

He pauses. From the look on his face Sylvain can tell that he’s mulling it over with as much dignity as he’d give to a battle order. “Very well. I suppose I have nothing to lose.” 

“Great!” he smirks and drops to his knees. “Let’s get started.” 

Dimitri’s trousers slide easily down his muscled thighs, revealing the impressive line of his cock under the soft wool of his smallclothes. He’s half-hard already, presumably from the eye contact, and it twitches as he licks a line, spit soaking the fabric. Dimitri lets out a soft gasp and jerks sharply at his hair, sending a spike of pain through the skin of his scalp. He bites off the complaint easy enough and tugs down the line of his smalls, exposing him to the cool air of his chambers. 

Dimitri groans as he presses a kiss to the head, propping the length up with his hand like some sort of weird, floppy bird. He hooks a thumb at the sharp bone of his hip as he licks up to the base, drawing more noises from Dimitri’s mouth which sharpen in intensity as he takes him in, bypassing the urge to gag as Dimitri jerks into his throat and drives his nose forward into dark curls. 

“You like that?” He pulls off and licks his lips. Dimitri breathes roughly in return, cock fully erect as he swallows him down again. Dimitri seems to enjoy having him on his knees like this from the way he fucks his mouth, fingers clawing through his hair. He really oughta get it cut. 

He spills with a low wine, holding Sylvain’s head locked in place as he empties himself into his throat. He falls on his ass as he pulls off, coughing as he swallows. Dimitri pants like he’s just run from Fhirdiad to Enbarr, cock limp and sticky with spit drying in the cold air. 

“Told ya I knew what I was doing,” he smirks, wiping his mouth with his hand. 

“That… was unexpected,” Dimitri fumbles awkwardly. Figures he would act like this after getting sucked off. 

“Well,” he stands, stretching and giving Dimitri a wink. “There’s more where that came from if you want. Think about it, yeah?” 

He nods slowly, like he’s offered a million other factors to consider. “I suppose I will.” 

“I’m off then. Don’t forget to clean yourself up, eh?” he smirks. “Sleep tight.”

* * *

Dimitri doesn’t prance around the next day. He doesn’t seem too upset either. The most he does is stare heavily at Sylvain’s direction during that morning’s meeting, past Dedue and to the left of Rodrigue. Sylvain gives him a grin. He looks away with a slight flush on his cheeks. Goddess, what a virgin. 

“I trust you did not do anything to further unsettle His Majesty” Dedue says lowly during the recess. 

“‘Course not.” If getting him to blow a load doesn’t count as ‘unsettling’ _. _ “How was he this morning, anyhow?” 

“Odd,” he glares. “Hence why I am asking.”

“Ahh, so that was a rhetorical question. Nah, I didn’t do anything. If he feels unsettled then that’s on him, yeah?” 

“I do not like how you are acting.” 

He raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. We just talked, that’s all. Ask him, he’ll say the same thing.” 

Dedue’s gaze flicks over his shoulder. He follows, and finds Dimitri quickly approaching. “I hope for your sake,” he says carefully, “that he does.” 

“Sylvain,” Dimitri lays a hand on his shoulder. Sylvain tenses at the touch. “May we speak?” 

“Sure thing, Your Majesty,” he levels a smile. “I was just finishing up with Dedue here.” 

“Your Majesty,” he nods, and then gives Sylvain one final glare before walking away.

“So,” he turns, stretching his smile wide. “What did you need me for?”

“Somewhere private, please,” he ducks his head.

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh. I see you given it some thought then.” 

“Please!” Dimitri hisses, cheeks flushing hilariously. “I do not want someone to overhear.” 

“Sure, sure. But you’re pretty loud.” 

Dimitri drags him outside the war room and past the prying eyes of the generals and nobles filling it. Fhirdiad Castle is ornate, full to the brim with high windows and arching ceilings and tons of convenient gashes cut into the walls to have angry conversations in. Dimitri levels a glare at him as soon as they are out of hearing range, his grip on his arm stinging through the thin fabric of his tunic. 

“So,” he starts with a drawl, leaning against the cool white stone. “How do you want me?”

Dimitri’s expression is flat, lacking any humor. “That is not why I called you aside.” 

“Then why did you?”

“To discuss our-” he tests his tongue. “Arrangement.” 

Is that what it is? An arrangement? A contract? A declaration of Sylvain being his personal whore, signed and stamped with the Blaiddyd Crest? 

“Yeah? What about it?” 

“It cannot continue.”

“Why not?” he makes a pout. “Didn’t like it?” 

“It was an abuse of power, and a moment of weakness on my end. As a king, I cannot sleep around with my subjects like this.”

“Aw, don’t think a king can’t get his dick wet once in a while?”

“That is not the point,” he glares. “I feel as though you have some ulterior motive as well.” 

“You said that last night.” It’s not like Dimitri’s wrong. Assuming that Sylvain is lying at any given point is a very good assumption to have. “You really don’t trust me that much? I gotta say, I’m a little hurt.” 

Dimitri raises his hands, placating like Sylvain is a wild animal that needs to be coaxed out of its corner. “I did not mean any offense to you. I just cannot help but wonder what you get out of this.” 

Dimitri is a king begging for a weapon. Sylvain is a perfectly fine dagger sitting unsheathed in front of him, but Dimitri will probably wax poetic about  _ propriety  _ and rank and all that shit if he says so. He takes Dimitri’s hand and presses a kiss to the bare skin under his glove instead, adds a graze of teeth that makes Dimitri gasp before pulling away. He likes predictability. Keeps everyone safe. 

“I promised to take care of you, didn’t I?” Dimitri’s eyes droop.

“You did, didn’t you.”

“So I wanna make good on that. I may be a good-for-nothing, but I can at least do a few things right.” 

“Do not say that about yourself.”

“What? Don’t act like you haven’t said it yourself a few times,” he grins lazily. “‘Sides, you thought I was good last night.” 

Dimitri flushes. “That is beside the point.”

“If you don’t wanna do this, you don’t have to. Like I said, you’re allowed to tell me to fuck off at any time. But think about what  _ you  _ want for once, yeah?” Chances are slim on that one. Dimitri lost the ability to recognize himself as a living being years ago. “Good for morale if you manage to relax every once in a while.”

“Need I remind you that we are at war?” 

“Kinda hard to forget. You still see the knights getting wasted after battle, right? Do you doubt their ability to fight?” 

“I suppose you have a point,” he acquiesces, shoulders slumping.

“Course I do. Whatever you want, Your Majesty. I’m always here.” 

Dimitri furrows his brows, arms crossed like he’s a stern guardian about to scold him for sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong. “I will agree to this,” he says. “So long as you do not get in my way.” 

“‘Course not. I can be discreet if I want.” 

“I must disagree on that front.”

“Oh?” he sends Dimitri a wicked look from under his lashes. Taught that trick to himself ages ago. They all love it when he jumps for them. Predictability at its finest. “Need me to prove it? I can show you tonight.”

“Tomorrow. I am indisposed this evening.”

“Alright. Don’t get too excited, eh? We’ve still got the rest of the council meeting to get through.”

Dimitri pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing as he removes himself from his position in the alcove. “Do not remind me. Today’s issues are trivial at best and absurd at worst.”

“You sure you don’t wanna meet tonight?” He smirks, stepping in stride beside him. 

“Please do not tempt me,” Dimitri says, and Sylvain laughs. 

* * *

Sleeping with Dimitri is, objectively, an awful idea. Not that he cares much about his whole shtick about  _ rank _ , and  _ power imbalance,  _ and  _ Sylvain, don’t you see that this is infringing on my moral code? Nevermind that i can crush a man’s skull with my bare hands and have a good time doing it.  _ It would almost be charming if not for the very real possibility that Dimitri could snap his neck while fucking him raw. 

“You’ve really gotten the hang of this” Sylvain pants one night, Dimitri’s cock pressed flush against the cleft of his ass. 

“You aren’t complaining, I hope,” Dimitri’s bangs hang low over his face, thumbing the back of Sylvain’s thigh as he folds his legs further against his chest. 

Dimitri’s bangs hang low over his face as he tears a soldier limb from limb. Grins as blood clings to his eyes. Carves Sylvain open, serves him for dinner. Predictability keeps him safe. People start acting different, he gets to expect a dagger to the back in his near future. Irregularity means his guts on a platter. Rare Almyran spices. Dried fruit from Sreng. Serve his blood in wine glasses with a toast to sincerity. Dimitri shatters one in his grip. 

“Not at all” he grins. 

Dimitri lets the name slip about a month and a half into what he would probably call a  _ sordid affair  _ and Sylvain would call  _ Tuesday night.  _ He isn’t too surprised, or even angry about it. People spout other names in bed with him all the time. Not that his name has any more weight than a convenient label for a body. Certainly not the weight Dimitri gives to Felix’s name. 

No surprise there either. Dimitri’s been clinging to the younger man’s coattails since the first moment they met. Everytime,  _ Felix is coming over soon,  _ or  _ I’m so excited to play with Felix _ ,  _ what will Felix think of this, I think Felix is mad at me again, Felix won’t look me in the eye anymore, Please, Felix, I beg you to reconsider, Felix, please come back to me, please, Felix, Felix, Felix,  _ until it loses all meaning and Dimitri is spouting nothing more than two-syllable gibberish. 

So, Felix. He’s stubborn. Has a face that looks like he’s been chewing metal all day. He’s almost always pissed off at something. Unlike Sylvain, he can’t read people for shit. Also unlike Sylvain,  he can’t lie at all, but mostly because he’s too blunt to ever want to. He cares deeply, loves fiercely, feels anything at all for any other person. 

Unlike Sylvain. 

Whatever. Sylvain knows how to act. Everyone has that little something that they want, and he’s smart enough to deliver. Cocky dom, shrinking violet, first-timer. Friends probably don’t think about how friends would act in bed, but there was always a good chance Felix would drop all pretenses and get his fill of Sylvain like everyone else. 

Predictability, eh? 

Sylvain hasn’t taken the liberty of preparing himself beforehand like he usually does. He’ll make Dimitri work for it tonight, he’s decided. Play the role right, they all get to go home happy. 

The heavy doors swing open as he presses on the handle, unlocked and unguarded. Dimitri rests like a wound on his bed, the heavy furs lining the mattress swallowing his sharp edges. He looks up expectantly from the book in his hands as Sylvain shuts the door, eyes bright and hungry. 

“You’re early,” Dimitri sits up, moving himself to the edge of the bed. 

“I’d hate for you to wait,” he replies easily, straddling Dimitri’s expectant lap. 

“What have you planned?” Dimitri makes him lean down with his hand at the back of his neck, thumbing at the hairs growing there. 

“You’ll see” he tugs at the laces of Dimitri’s trousers. He’s half-hard already. Impatient boy. “Get your pants off already.” 

Dimitri raises an eyebrow at his demand, but tugs down the waistband of his pants anyways. He’s surprised. Sylvain tends to dirty talk most of the time, a good use for a man only capable of running his mouth. This is an unprecedented change of pace. 

Sylvain palms at Dimitri’s dick through his smalls, smirking at the way he shudders. Dimitri’s hands dig into his ass as he nips at his neck, leaving marks next to the ones left by people strangers to both of them. Dimitri doesn’t seem to mind sloppy seconds, or maybe he just doesn’t care. He tilts for better access, then pinches Dimitri’s shoulder. 

“Come and fuck me already. Quit wasting your time,” he growls. Playing the aloof bastard is actually pretty fun. He could get used to this.

“You’re awfully impatient” Dimitri mumbles into his neck, lifting him up and flipping him onto the bed. Sylvain’s back sinks into the soft furs as he quirks his brow. “Are you alright?”

He wants to scream at him for wasting his breath, or at least tell him to take his own damn advice. Figures he would be this earnest when he’s ten inches to shoving his cock down Sylvain’s throat. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he bucks up, grinding his crotch against Dimitri’s erection and making him moan. 

Dimitri’s hands tug at his shirt and he gets the hint, wiggling a bit so he can shuck it off. “You aren’t quite as wordy as usual” he murmurs into the groove of his collarbone, nipping lightly before undoing the lacing of his trousers. 

“Who’s complaining now?” Dimitri’s being far more handsy than usual, drawing a thumb over his nipple, tugging at his hair. He nudges Dimitri with his knee. “Go get the oil. I’m gonna have you open me up.” 

The pressure of Dimitri’s body lifts briefly as he fetches the bottle from the end table, dragging Sylvains smalls down and drizzling a generous amount over his fingers. He’s fingered Dimitri a few times, so he at least gets the gist of it and won’t try to shove his hand down Sylvain’s mouth instead. 

Dimitri presses in and bends his legs, the cold oil settling like a layer of paint as a finger dips in. The tent in Dimitri’s underclothes presses solid against his thigh when he folds him further, finger pumping steadily. The oil leaks down the cleft of his ass as he adds a second finger, his eyes barely focused on Sylvain’s face. 

“Alright” he swats lightly at Dimitri’s arm, getting him to pause. “Quit it. I’m ready.” 

He grips the bed for leverage as he slides in, the stretch of Dimitri’s cock making his own ache. Dimitri’s elbows cage his head in on either side as his hips move, short gasps escaping his mouth. He gets all ragged when he fucks Sylvain, the polar opposite of what he tries to be in human clothes. 

Let’s see, what would Felix do in this situation. Demand a duel beforehand, probably. String Dimitri up to the headboard for catharsis. “Come on,” he growls in his ear, scraping his nails against the hard juncture of his shoulder blade. “Is that all you have?” 

Correction: playing the aloof bastard is really,  _ really  _ fun. 

Dimitri bucks in deeper, causing a groan to rip out of Sylvain’s throat. The concave of his neck shines with sweat, his bangs sweeping over the bridge of Sylvain’s nose with every thrust. He has to resist the urge to swat it.

“ _ Felix,”  _ Dimitri groans, hands fisting in Sylvain’s hair. “ _ Felix, Felix _ ,” like some shitty love poem. He doesn’t even have the right body, the right face. He drags his nails down Dimitri’s back. Dimitri should just go down to the city and find some other guy to fuck, blue hair and piercing eyes with a beating heart. But hey, he’s pretty and unresisting. It’s unfair of him to get mad at Dimitri when he was the one who offered.

Dimitri yells as he comes, and Sylvain’s follows soon after like a footnote. He feels something dribbling as Dimitri pulls out and tries not to think about it dripping onto the bed. Of all the sensations he’s gotten used to, it’s probably one of the worst. Takes hours for him to feel clean again. He’s given up on trying. 

He groans as he slides off the bed, wincing at the sensation of Dimitri’s spend leaking down his thigh. “I’m gonna clean up. You’re welcome to join if you want,” he winks, but he doesn’t seem to care. Doesn’t seem to see him at all. Disappointed, probably. Should’ve gotten used to it by now. 

The thing is, he’s learned, that if you feel something enough you learn to not feel it at all. 

The bath heats easily with a fire spell, and his ass stings as he lowers into it. Dimitri isn’t joining him. He never does. He would join Felix, but Sylvain isn’t him, so he gets to bathe alone. 

No one ever joins him. Not that he really wants them to. 

Felix would probably rest in the crook of Dimitri’s arm. The bath is big enough for that. His hair would be down. He isn’t too sure how long it is, because he hasn’t seen him for over a year and will never get the chance to now. Dimitri would wash it, and Felix would swat him and say he could do it himself. He lets Dimitri wash it anyways. They both laugh. He’ll never get to hear Felix laugh either. The water is cold because neither can heat it with a spell, but it doesn't matter. The lip of the bath stings hard at his neck as he leans his head back. 

Sylvain isn’t Felix. Sylvain isn’t anyone at all. He’s learned to content himself with that, a shambling demon made up of the different faces he gets to wear. Dimitri’s like that too. Kindred spirits, and shit like that. He holds his breath and dips under. 

He wonders what it would sound like if Dimitri said his name.

* * *

The road stretches ahead like the fraying braid of a noose, the head of his mare an inkblot bobbing ahead. Any house the party passes has its shutters drawn tight and an icon swinging from the door. The state of mourning is widespread. Sylvain remembers the king. He was loud, and massive. He seemed to love Dimitri.

_ Faerghus is full of wolves,  _ his brother said, his silhouette cut like a gash in the whirling storm.  _ They’ll eat you up when you least expect it.  _

He twists and stretches in the saddle, catching a glimpse of the guards on either side of him. His back aches from riding for days on end, but it’s not like there’s any alternative. House Gautier renounced carriages as frivolous luxury ages ago. Too slow, too cushy, too much of a target. You might as well be painting a bullseye on your back. 

The road from Gautier to Fhirdiad is long, not to mention awfully boring. They passed through Fraldarius on the way there. He hasn’t seen Felix since before the massacre. He’ll probably see him at the funeral though. Glenn’s burial got shoehorned in a good few weeks after the king’s, probably because they didn’t want to detract from it or some shit. The Duke must be tearing out his hair. 

There’ll be a load of crying people. It always gets awkward when people start crying around him. He never has any idea how to act, or what to say. It’s not like he doesn’t care, he just…

Sylvan stopped crying a long time ago. 

They see the Tailtean Plains in the distance from Itha, foggy and massive. One of the knights accompanying him tells him the story of Seiros and Nemesis on the way, even if he’s heard it a million times before. He’s grateful for the distraction though, and doesn’t cut her off. 

“Good place for a battle,” she says, motioning with her lance. “The knights at Fhirdiad do practice drills there all the time, the lucky bastards.” 

“No good place back home?” he asks, tilting his head. Castle Gautier has expansive training grounds compared to the others he’s seen, but not exactly enough to fit in a battalion. 

“The border is our training,” and if he isn’t mistaken, she sounds a touch bitter. Father wouldn’t be pleased, but he doesn’t give a shit. “And you either live or you die.” 

Fhirdiad paints itself in shades of black as they approach the gate. He used to love the city when his mother would take him on rare occasions. It used to taste like freedom hard won. 

Now their party slinks in like a pack of criminals sent to be executed in front of the silent eyes shut behind closed windows. The lack of noise strains cold, sending gooseflesh prickling up Sylvains arms. The castle is worse, an imposing sentinel cast in grey stone piercing the sky. Fhirdiad used to be lively, as far as Faerghus cities went. Now Fhirdiad is a death trap, a stone thrown in a cemetery.

A member of the court greets him as they enter, his eyes giving him a clinical sweep. Sylvain trails after him towards the throne room as he speaks, explaining the formalities and tensions that Faerghus loves. He’s there, technically, to deliver condolences to the Regent in place of his father. The Gautiers have had a long policy of never leaving the border unguarded and in turn built a solid reputation for being recluses who get everyone else to do their work for them. He supposes it’s true, considering his place. 

“Will I be able to see His Highness?” he interrupts, because that’s all he really cares about. Not that the man can do much to stop him.

“If the Lord Regent permits you” he replies. He sends him off into the throne room with a touch on the shoulder that lasts too long and an odd look before he bustles away. He wonders if he does that to all the young nobles that pass through, or if he just caught wind of Sylvain’s reputation. He’ll be busy later, either way. 

Rufus sags on the throne, a look of bored distaste scrawled on his heavy pale features. Sylvain has met him exactly once before at some celebration in Fhirdiad years ago. He was a mountain of a man then. The throne bites at his edges and whittles him down like a soft piece of wood now. 

Sylvain bows, looking somewhere over Rufus’ shoulder. “House Gautier formally extends its condolences to the Lord Regent and His Highness, and offers its aid in this trying time.” 

“I don’t know why anyone bothers with this,” Rufus says, his voice a stampede of cavalry in the distance. “Do you know how many people I have received bearing your exact same message? From a child, of all people. You Gautiers really don’t give a shit.” He leans forward, ice blue eyes pinning to Sylvain’s face like he was a rare butterfly.

“Tell me, boy. Will your father truly lend his aid like you say, or are you just reading off what he made you memorize?” 

“If you request it.” 

“Goddess,” he snorts. “Even when dead everyone’s still licking at my brother’s bootstraps.” 

Sylvain won’t reply to that. He wouldn’t even if he could. The older brother in disgrace, hating the younger for their Crest. Did Rufus ever hold Lambert under the bath for too long? Did he ever throw rocks in the hope that one would cave open his skull?

_ The wolves are always hungry, you see. That’s why they bite harder than the rest.  _

“Bah, it doesn’t matter” He falls back. “None of this does.” 

“...How is His Highness?” he tests. 

“See for yourself if you want” he snorts, waving a hand. “I don’t care. Just get out of here.” 

Sylvain bows again before leaving, dismissing his guard as he exits through the throne room doors. The heels of his boots sound out as he treks to the residential wing of the castle, a route he could take with his eyes closed. The numerous guards lining the halls leer warily at him, but allow him to pass. The amount of them builds up around the edges of the hall like a clog in a drain, but strangely there are none guarding Dimitri’s door save for a boy who’s age is only belied by the roundness of his face. A Duscur boy. Odd. He remembers Miklan saying that the knights burnt the country to the ground, but here he is. 

“Hello,” he says, approaching the door. The boy eyes him with the wariness of an injured bird. “Who are you?” 

“His Highness's Retainer” he answers steadily, a current of the same caution thick on his tongue. 

“He has a retainer now, huh?” Strange time for that as well. He can’t deny that his curiosity is piqued. “Can I see him?”

The boy tenses, and if he were allowed a sword at his belt Sylvain could easily imagine the split second it would take for his hand to travel from behind his back to the hilt. “Rest is of the utmost importance for His Highness. He must not be disturbed.” 

Stubborn too. Good. Goddess knows you need a thick skin to survive in places like these. He tries the softer angle. “I’m an old friend of his. Tell him Sylvain is here, and if he wants me to fuck off then I’ll never bother you two again.” He scratches his neck, pulling for honesty. “I’ve been worried sick about him, really. Can’t imagine how he’s doing now.” 

The boy's eyes narrow almost exasperatedly before he opens the doors of Dimitri’s chambers and ducks in. Sylvain taps his foot to the muffled words behind the heavy oak doors before he slips back out and retakes his post as if he had never been gone. 

“He will see you” he stands aside. “I would ask that you do not keep him too long.”

“Sure thing. I’m expected somewhere anyways.”

Dimitri is a beacon of empty space on his bed, a doll made of paper so easily tearable the light shines straight through it. His eyes sit in his face like two pale marbles, fixated on a point a thousand miles away. Sylvain’s entry passes through him in its entirety. The only acknowledgment of the fact that Dimitri is tangible falls in the knife-sharp creases of the sheets dented by his body. 

“Hey,” he kneels down at the edge of the bed. Dimitri is eight and crying about the scrapes on his palms. Dimitri is thirteen and stares at Sylvain like he only then realized that he was there, face blank and devoid of any expression at all. 

“Sylvain” his eyes train past his shoulder. “I didn’t know you were here.” 

“I just got here.” He’s talking like a nun comforting the dying knight on her lap, hand gentle on his bloodied face with a whisper of a prayer. He doesn’t know what else to do, how to handle Dimitri now that he’s a porcelain doll liable to shatter with the wrong touch. Sylvain can’t do comfort like that. He doesn’t think he can do comfort at all. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Dimitri clearly isn’t okay, but he’s too kind to call him out on it. Is. Was. Talk about him in the past tense like he’s already dead. He might as well be. “I’m happy to see you” he starts slowly. “I haven’t seen Felix, or Ingrid. I don’t think they’ll come.” 

“They still might. They’re worried sick about you too.” That’s a total lie. He hasn’t seen or heard from either of them in weeks, but he would bet his inheritance that they’re far more preoccupied with the dead than anyone else. If Dimitri were any more lucid he would be calling him out for it like he always did, but he simply nods instead.

“Oh. Okay.”

Sylvain’s eyes flit to the door. “Who’s the new kid?”

Dimitri blinks. “Who?”

“Your new retainer. I didn’t catch his name.” 

“Ah, Dedue?” Sylvain nods. “Yes, he is… like me.” 

Whatever that means. Sylvain is smart enough to not press. 

“Good to have company. Can’t imagine those stuffy guards are much fun,” he grins.

Dimitri’s attempt to mirror it stretches like stiff leather over the bones of his face, teeth posed like a threat under blank eyes. He must notice Sylvain wince, because it slides off into something almost genuinely sorrowful pasted across his face like a layer of peeling paint. 

“Is it that bad?” he whispers, absently picking at the heavy layer of bandages circling his arms. “I can’t get it right anymore. It’s hard to remember how.”

“No one’s gonna expect you to smile right now.” Dimitri’s eyes droop downwards. He scrambles for refooting. “Anyways, it gets easier if you practice it, especially when you have a mirror or something.” 

Dimitri cringes at the suggestion, hands twisting in the sheets around his legs. Sylvain feels so useless in situations like these that he wants to scream. Might alert Dedue though, so he’ll hold off. “Uh- you know, I could teach you instead, if you want.” 

Dimitri shrugs like he doesn’t have a choice, like Sylvain is a tutor dragging him along for another lesson about the territories he’ll have to manage. Sylvain knows when he’s wanted. He feels less welcome than a noble in a commoner’s house. 

“Like this, see?” He slides on an easy grin. Dimitri looks on blankly. “You wanna smile with your eyes too. You’ll look weird otherwise.” 

Dimitri tries again, his eyes crinkling oddly at the corners. Sylvain is staring in a mirror when he’s ten, struggling to find the right way to arrange everything until it comes out perfect. Tries to ignore the missing baby teeth, the split lip, the yellowing bruises. Dimitri’s eye swells in purple. 

“Is that any better?” he strains through his teeth. 

“Sure. Keep at it and you’ll be a natural.” 

He drops the expression like it took a monumental effort to hold it, his newfound hollow demeanor taking over. “I don’t think I want to do it.”

“What, smile? C’mon, don’t give up now. You only just started.” 

“What’s the point? No one will believe it.” 

Sylvain shrugs, readjusting his position as his knees start to ache. “It helps. There are always situations where you don’t feel like smiling but have to anyways. ‘Sides,” he adds, falling back into a lazy grin of his own, “it’s easier to catch a ladies attention with a dashing smile like this.” 

Dimitri turns away from him like a paper caught in a breeze, scratching at his hand absentmindedly. He would’ve laughed at his joke once, cheeks rounded out in genuine delight. Just three weeks ago he would have frowned and scolded him about his behaviour, then Sylvain would’ve thrown an arm around his shoulder and rubbed his knuckles on his big weird forehead until he was giggling. 

“You know a lot about this,” his voice warbles. “I wish…” 

“Huh?” he cocks his head. “Are you alright?” 

Dimitri drags his head to face Sylvain, eyes unfocused. “Mhm. Don’t worry.” 

“I’m gonna worry about you.” He places his hand on the bed, open and still. Dimitri stares at it like a hound that might bite. “I’m worried sick about you. When we got the news I was so fu- terrified that you were killed, and now…” 

Sylvain withdraws his hand from the bed. Dimitri stares at the spot where it was like he‘s tasting the afterimage. “Anything you need. I’m here for you, okay?” 

But Dimitri is quiet. He always is. Stitches his mouth shut when he’s upset, curls up like a pill bug dug out of its grave. Sylvain knows he’ll never say a word to him after this. Not that he can blame him though. 

Sylvain gives him a soft smile and moves to stand, the cut of his coat tight across his back as he stretches. “I gotta go. Father wants me back as soon as possible. I’ll come back soon, alright?” 

“You don’t forget your promises, do you,” Dimitri whispers behind him, voice cracking like porcelain. 

Sylvain turns away from the door, Dimitri’s glazed eyes staring at him from across the room. “Not the ones that matter,” he says, and opens the door.

* * *

He doesn’t see Dimitri again after that. Not for four years at least. Sylvain is a liar, after all.

Dimitri stalks down the second-floor hall as a violent blue blur in his periphery. Sylvain turns away from the servants lugging his trunk into his room and sees him, broad and sharp and soft at the same time. His smile sits low on his face and crinkles pleasantly at the eyes.

He thinks it looks quite natural on him.

* * *

Tuesday, he decides to train. He’s been spending less time down at the taverns letting people fork over the used goods, but there’s still enough dust gathering on the blade of his lance that he cringes when he swipes a finger over it. Normally Felix would scream at him for it. Things aren’t normal anymore. If they were, Dimitri might stop looking like one of those preserved corpses the knights dig up in the bogs. 

He sees him staring south through the frame of the window in his chambers, his hands at the glass insisting that Felix will appear over the horizon at any moment. Dimitri could never change his mind. He gets stuck and has to go running to Sylvain to mediate instead. Bandage the knees, wipe the tears, put a kiss on his head in a fumbled attempt at sympathy. Play pretend until he can walk around like real people do. 

Going all misty-eyed over a deserter is a bad look for a king. Misty-eyed in any capacity, really. Romance? Total sham. Dimitri’s always had a bleeding heart though. Sometimes he thinks he slips in the puddles. Felix would have screamed at him for it too. Sylvain isn’t Felix, but he’s decided he doesn’t like that look all the same. 

“Train with me,” he stares Dimitri down over the piles of paper swamping his desk. Dimitri does not afford him the luxury of returning his gaze.

“I have far more important matters to tend to. I’m certain you will find someone else to spar with.” 

“You haven’t swung a lance in weeks. It doesn’t do you any good to slack off, you know.”

Dimitri’s eyes flick up like the point of a halberd. Seems like the only way Sylvain can get him to do anything these days is by snapping at his heels. He might as well scrub his scalp with blue dye next. Paint over the ugly freckles and start swinging a sword. He does love a good show. 

“Your tongue will be the death of you one day.” 

“Train with me. I feel sick watching you gather dust in here.” 

“Very well.” Dimitri casts off his cloak as he stands, his shoulders rippling under the fine black fabric of his tunic. “I cannot remember you ever being so stubborn.” 

“The ladies love a tough guy” Sylvain catches in Dimitri’s stride as they walk down the hall.

The edge of a smile catches at his lips. “You have not changed much in that regard, at least.”

“Yeah, well. It was always Fe- Ingrid who was more stubborn than a mule.”

“Was? She still is. I have tried to offer her a position here at the war council, but she refuses to leave her post in Galatea.” 

Sylvain laughs. “Figured as much. She’s probably ground her teeth down into stumps for a little action.” 

Dimitri nods. “Let us hope for her sake there is none.” 

Every pair of eyes in the training yard focuses on them as they arrive. Dimitri’s form overtakes the space, filling every ornate stone corner with its weight until nothing is left. They haven’t seen him outside of brooding in his study or the council hall in ages. The king with his lapdog in tow. What a sight they make! 

In theory, at least. No one’s actually called him that yet, but the servants and guards so do love to gossip. He’s had more than a few call him a whore back in Gautier. Sylvain has learned to roll with the punches. 

He picks a wooden lance from the rack and gives it an experimental twirl, checking the balance. Dimitri follows suit, picking his up gingerly like there’s a chance that it’ll bite. The gaze of the knights tracks them to the sandy centre of the yard where Sylvain drops into a lazy stance, giving Dimitri a smirk. Dimitri mirrors him and narrows his eyes. He lunges. 

Sylvain takes his first loss in stride. Dimitri bats away his lance with a strength that nearly wrenches his shoulder out of its socket before he can even blink. He shrugs off the titters coming from the circle of spectators they’ve gathered and resumes his stance. Eager to see the spoiled Gautier boy get his ass handed back to him on a silver platter, undoubtedly. 

“Come on,” he smiles. “You aren’t gonna keep me down that easy.” 

He holds his own longer the second round, making Dimitri jump back with a sweep at his legs before he parries and knocks Sylvain into the sand. Dimitri bends down to lend an arm with something adjacent to concern shining in his eyes. Sylvain hops to his feet. 

Third and fourth are much the same, Sylvain thinking that he’s gained the upper hand for a split second before Dimitri bats him away with no more strength than he’d use to swat a fly. His clothes have gotten awfully sandy. He thinks about keeping some in his fist to throw in Dimitri’s face for next round. 

“You are far too reckless with your movements,” Dimitri’s shadow casts over him, black in the white light of the sharp autumn sun. 

“I’m being as careful as I always am.” 

Dimitri extends his hand. “That is what worries me.” 

Fifth, he gets antsy. Dimitri’s form taunts him from across the yard, hulking and unshakeable. The smile he’s been wearing chips off in flakes like old paint. His lip twitches in threat of a sneer. He darts forward. Dimitri blocks. He tries for a thrust, Dimitri parries. His wrist stings. Dimitri swings his lance wide overhead. Sylvain jumps back. He thinks he has a splinter in his palm. Jab. Parry. Felix would’ve won by now. 

He loses. Dimitri watches him scramble to his feet. He looks bored. 

Six. Sweat slips down the side of his face. He stabs. Dimitri steps out of the way. He isn’t even trying anymore. Was he trying? He can’t tell. Sylvain is too useless to put up much of a fight. It would make sense if he wasn’t. Block. Dimitri shoves him down. 

Seven. He considers letting loose a bit of magic. Fire to singe Dimitri’s hair. Ragnarok to keep the rest from staring. He isn’t smiling anymore. Dimitri looks like he’d rather be doing anything else. What do you mean magic is dishonourable in a duel? You’d pull that same trick in an instant on the battlefield. Hypocrites, the lot of em. Thrust, parry, Sylvain eats sand for the nth time that day. 

Eight. Felix could’ve held him off. Felix could’ve blocked that. Felix could’ve dodged. Felix could’ve kept Dimitri’s attention for more than a fucking minute. Felix wouldn’t be dusting himself off right now. 

Nine. Felix would’ve won. Felix would’ve fought back. Would have. Could have. Felix should be here. Felix should be at Dimitri’s side instead of whatever terrible plagiarism Sylvain is doing. Felix should be in his chambers at night. Felix should be in Dimitri’s bed,  _ but I have to clean up your fucking mess for you instead, huh? Look me in the eye already you dense bastard, please just fucking look at me look at me look at me lookatme- _

He has to try harder, be stronger. He can’t make good on his promise if he can’t- what, beat him in a fight? Hold back his leash? Dimitri looks no more bothered than if he was still in his office doing paperwork, and he’s swinging his lance so hard Sylvain leaves tracks in the sand as he goes down. 

“That is enough, Sylvain.”  _ Because you’re clearly too goddamn worthless to get a hit in. You can make it up to me by letting me fuck you tonight, okay?  _ “I believe we should pause here.” 

But he’s already getting up. “One more.” 

He sinks into his stance, his gaze sharp and cold as Dimitri does the same. He blows a strand of hair out of his face with a puff of air, and Dimitri makes his move. 

Sylvain catches his strike in a solid block, eyes flicking down to see Dimitri’s biceps straining against the sleeves of his tunic, a bead of sweat tracking down the concave juncture of his collarbones. He shoves him off and relishes in the way he stumbles back, his footing uncertain in the sand. He’s interested now, he can tell in the way he handles his lance, the way he rolls back his shoulders before dropping back into his stance. Those are not the movements of a man simply trudging through the motions. 

Sylvain leaps forward, lance aimed in a sharp thrust. Dimitri catches it easily and repeats with a stab of his own, but he bats it away. They engage like that for a while, longer than they had kept it going before. Sylvain relishes in it, the burn of his muscles, the bright look in Dimitri’s eyes-  _ the one only Felix could give him-  _

Dimitri swings, he steps back. He lunges forward again, Sylvain presses with a stab of his own, one that Dimitri easily bats away. He’s losing ground again, Dimitri pushing him back in the ragged circle of the knights who had given up on any pretense of training long ago. He can still win, he knows he can, lunge forward, catch him in the shoulder, knock him down-

He trips. Dimitri watches him fall like an executioner watching the noose tighten. Pain jolts through his arms as he catches himself on his elbows, blood rushing in his ears and sand in his mouth. He doesn’t look up. Dimitri walks away, and he doesn’t say a word.

* * *

The sun stands bright above and swallows their shadows in their entirety. Dimitri squints against the refracting light on the water as he fumbles his pole. Sylvain kicks his heels against the dock, relishing in the way the toes of his boot cast ripples in the water. It’s mid-summer and the water is too cold to jump in, which meant that Sylvain got to teach Dimitri how to make fishing lines out of sticks and twine, which also meant that he got to chase Dimitri around with a worm and hear him shriek. 

When the lake near the castle froze over thick enough to walk on he would kick a hole in the ice and drop a line down, just for fun. His brother held him down in the freezing water as his limbs locked up and vision started going black before leaving him to die. He hasn’t been out since, however many years ago that was. 

“-ing.” 

“Huh?” He looks over at Dimitri, who’s looking glumly at his line. 

“This is pretty boring, I said.” 

He leans back on his arms, squinting up at the sky. “Yeah, well. Fishing is boring.”

“Then why are we doing it?” 

“So many questions.” He drags his nails against Dimitri’s elbow, making him squeal and wiggle away. “It’s good for you, makes you think and shi- stuff.” 

Dimitri pouts. “That’s really boring. I think you’re kind of boring.”

“No I’m not. I have crowds of ladies stumbling over their feet to get to me. What kinda boring guy can say that?” 

“I don’t know. Glenn’s interesting, and he’s always complaining about not having a girlfriend.” 

Sylvain bites back a sneer, even though Dimitri can’t see him from where he’s looking. “He’s different,” he forces out. “You’d think Glenn is great even if he stabbed himself with his own lance.”

Dimitri twists back, his brows furrowing. “You shouldn’t be saying awful things like that.”

“Yeah, okay, okay, I’m sorry. Keep your eye on the line.”

DImitri sends him one last glare before turning to the pond and Sylvain closes his eyes and basks in the cool light. It’s rare he ever gets any peace like this, even knowing that as soon as he crests the hill behind them everything will come rushing back. But for now the only sounds he can hear is the rustling of leaves and the occasional bird call, Dimitri focused with quiet intent on his bobbing line.

“Am I boring? Don’t lie.” 

Sylvain doesn’t open his eyes. “Why would I lie about that?”

“You do it all the time.”

“No I don’t. I’m as honest as can be, swear it.” 

“There, see! You’re lying.” 

Sylvain nudges Dimitri with his foot and earns a swat for it. “It’s not nice to call people liars.” 

“Then stop lying!” 

“I haven’t lied one bit this whole conversation. If you keep calling me a liar then I’ll leave and you won’t know if you’re boring or not.”

“Fine, sorry…”

Sylvain waves a hand lazily. “Thank you. Now to answer your question; yes, you are pretty boring.” 

He can physically feel Dimitri pouting, his big eyes staring at him with genuine sorrow. Must be nice. “Why?”

“Let’s see… You’re serious, and a killjoy, and all you do is train and study and blab about politics even though you’re too much of a baby to get it.” 

“I’m the prince. I’m supposed to do that stuff” he huffs. “And don’t call me a baby.”

“You are a baby though. You aren’t supposed to care until you’re at least fifteen.”

“Well, do you care?”

“Goddess, no, but that’s because I’m interesting.”

Dimitri’s heels kick against the dock. “Girls aren’t interesting.”

“You’re just too much of a baby to get that too.”

“I’m not a baby!” He imagines Dimitri puffing out his chest in childish indigance. “My father says I have a great mind for the workings of the kingdom.”

“Sure. Have you ever killed someone?” He opens his eyes and grins, and it must be frightening because Dimitri recoils. 

“Don’t say stuff like that!” he cries. 

“It’s true though. Your father, the Duke, Gustave, even Glenn...” 

Dimitri shrinks, his thick eyebrows tangled in a knot as he sets his fishing pole down. “I… I guess…”

“What did you think being a knight was all about?”

“I just…” Dimitri curls up, his voice miles away from the playful banter a moment ago. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Sylvain’s stomach twists as Dimitri’s voice shakes, and he slides to the edge of the dock and nudges him with his shoulder. “It’s fine. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He chuckles. “I’ve ruined our nice day, haven’t I? Stupid me.” 

Dimitri stays silent, avoiding Sylvains gaze. He nudges him again. 

“C’mon, tell me whats wrong.” 

Dimitri shakes his head, the straight cut of his hair fanning out and flicking Sylvains shoulder. 

“Tell me, or I’ll put you in the pond with all the gross fish and worms. You don’t want that, do you?” 

“It's just…” His voice wavers as he hugs himself. “The way you said that. Have you…?” 

“Eh?” Of course he has. He is a Gautier after all, born and raised in war. The dagger at his hip isn’t some flashy toy. Dimitri would hate that answer. Hate him for it too. “Nah, ‘course not. I’m not a knight yet, yeah?” 

Dimitri sighs in relief. “Ok. That’s good.”

Sylvain sighs. “I’m sorry for bringing that up. For the record, I think there are a lot of interesting things about you too.” 

Dimitri’s eyes crinkles as he smiles, bright and toothy. “Really?” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get too excited.”

“Like what?”

“Aren’t you clingy. I’ll tell you when we get back, okay?” he says as he stands, offering a hand to pull Dimitri up. 

“That’s not fair!” he pushes himself up, shirking Sylvain’s hand. “You’re just saying that because you can’t think of anything to say!”

‘Fine, I’ll tell you one thing while we’re walking there,” he taps a finger against his chin exaggeratedly as they begin to walk. “Let’s see… You’re kind.” 

Dimitri makes a face. “Really? That’s it?” 

“Oi, don’t act like that’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not very interesting though. I thought it was gonna be how I’m strong or something. Did you know I can lift up the Duke now? Father thought it was awfully funny.” 

“Seriously? That’s just weird.” He shakes his head. “You’re soft, and sensitive, and even if you’re gonna be king one day you still don’t want anyone to get hurt. I think that… I can’t think of anyone else who is like you, so that makes it interesting, okay?” 

Dimitri looks up at him, eyes shining. “You mean it?”

“Of course I do” Dimitri’s smile is a bright thing, vibrant enough that Sylvain feels the need to look away. It suits him far better than the sad look he had before, he thinks. He’d love for him to never look like that again.

  
  


* * *

The news arrives at little earlier than dawn. Sylvain knows because a white-faced page hammers at his chamber door and hardly lets him change out of his nightclothes before dragging him to the war room. He is only mildly relieved to see everyone else in a similar state of undress save for Dimitri, who stalks the head of the table looking like he never went to sleep at all. Sylvain wouldn’t know. He never sticks around in bed after everything is said and done, and Dimitri never asks him to. He does like consistency in an arrangement. 

He looks over to Dedue at his left who is quickly smoothing down his hair while frowning at a hefty report sitting on the table in front of him, seemingly unbothered by the chaos of the room in front of him. Sylvain squints at the paper to suss out what the hell is going on, but the writing is too small and cramped for him to see anything beyond blurred smudges. 

“Hey,” he leans in. “Do you know what’s happened?”

“Several scouts arrived with news pertaining to the Alliance. Beyond that,” he motions to the head of the table, “I shall let His Majesty speak for himself.” 

Dimitri stands, his chair pushing back with an awful shriek that has Sylvain wincing and forces everyone else to snap their mouths shut. When he was younger he was so soft-spoken he couldn’t be heard in a quiet room. His presence is inescapable now, filling every crack until there’s no choice left but to acknowledge him. 

“Two hours ago we received news that the Empire’s army has broken their stalemate and has been seen marching for Myrddin with great speed. The scouts report that not only is the army led by the Emperor herself,” his hands curl at the table, an ounce of pressure more and the gauntlets would cut gashes in the wood, “but at her side is an individual wielding a great golden sword.” 

Sylvain chuckles. “They’re alive, huh? Goddess be praised.” He was perfectly content knowing that their pretty little skull had been buried in the ruins of the monastery, but he’s used to disappointment by now. 

“This is no time to be joking” Dedue warns. 

Dimitri ignores them both and continues with a tone suggesting that he’s reading funeral rites instead of a report. “They are a highly capable individual, and by no means should this person be underestimated.” His shoulders slump, the furs on his back weighing him down like an anchor. “Their revival is a grim omen indeed.” 

The fact that the professor can still garner such wholehearted praise from Dimitri even while facing them down on opposite ends of the battlefield makes his eye twitch. Plunging a lance through their chest will be a sight to drink to. 

Sylvain leans forward and threads his hands together. “If their objective is to take Myrddin then we should send reinforcements. If they gain control over such a crucial point there’s no telling what they’ll do.” 

Dedue nods. “I agree. It is in our best interest to prevent the Empire from gaining any ground within the alliance.” 

From the other side of the table, Catherine cracks her knuckles. “Send me in and I guarantee we can hold them off.” 

Dimitri shakes his head. ‘It would not do well for you to discount them. Even on her own, the Emperor could defeat a battalion single handedly.” 

Sylvain looks at Catherine, who shrugs. “I could go along with a few other of our generals. If we combine forces with the Alliance there might be a chance we-”

“No” Dimitri cuts him off. “I will not allow that.”

“Why not? If we have the chance to stop the Empire then we should take it.” 

“I will not dispense my soldiers to die in defense of a foreign power.” 

“But-”

“I agree with His Majesty,” Rodrigue says from Dimitri’s left hand. “It is far too much of a gamble to send our troops to the Alliance and leave the kingdom undefended.” 

“A smaller group, then. Strong enough to defend the bridge, but not so many people that a loss would leave us completely empty-handed.” 

Dedue frowns. “We have not made any pact with the Alliance. A sudden appearance of troops could prove disastrous.” 

“We aren’t exactly fighting them either,” Catherine pipes in. “As long as we make our intentions known then I doubt we’ll be attacked.” 

“Enough. My decision is final.” Dimitri glowers from the head of the table, arms crossed. 

Sylvain furrows his brows. “Your Majesty, if we let the bridge fall then the Alliance is done for. If the Empire controls the rest of the country then we don’t stand a chance.” 

“I will not send my people to die in defense of that bridge. We will meet the Empire in battle when the time comes, and that is not now.”

“Very well” he sinks back in his seat. Dimitri stays standing for the rest of the meeting.

He goes to him again that night, because of course he does. It is expected in the same way the door to his chambers are thrown wide. He’s on the bed almost as soon as he steps in. 

Dimitri’s hands chafe against his skin, raw and rough as the bark of the pine trees up north. He’s vicious with his movements, pinning him by the wrists, scratching trenches in his back, every thrust of his hips like the edge of a dagger. He grins and bears it because hey, he doesn’t love him either. It’s only fair. 

He looks at his hair cast across the sheets drenched silver in the light coming in from the balcony. It’s been a pain to brush lately. Dimitri doesn’t seem to be enjoying this either. When did he lose track of its length? Dimitri fists his hands in it and pulls so hard he wouldn't be surprised if he found a bald spot come next morning. 

Sylvain limps out to the balcony after all is said and done, the sheet around his waist gluing to his backside and fluttering in the cold night breeze. The city spreads out from his feet in burning trails, torch-lined streets overlapping to the point of claustrophobia. He can’t say he’s too fond of the place, but it has its charm points. The cities in Gautier are few and far between, situated near iced-over lakes or skirting the edge of uninhabited swathes of frozen desert. The land had been ravished by war, a dead zone for anyone daring to cross it. He doesn’t like Fhirdiad, but he can’t say he wants to see it succumb to the same fate. 

War is a handy little shelf to categorize his life. He remembers going further south when he was younger to Fraldarius or wherever and being amazed at the fresh fruit they had. When he mentioned that all they got up north were things like dried plums, or if he was lucky some of the weird bitter berries from Sreng, Felix or Ingrid would give him a weird sad look like he was talking crazy. No one wanted to come up north in those years. 

He wonders if war will be a bookend for him. 

Footsteps rise up behind him, almost carried away in the sharp winds that come from standing at such an altitude. Dimitri settles behind him, as silent as a grave like he always is. He doesn’t need to speak for Sylvain to know he’s talking. 

“Felix was there, wasn’t he.”

“Yes. Beside her.” 

“Shame,” he grins even though Dimitri can’t see it. “Who do you think he’ll try to kill first; me or you?” 

They both know the answer. Sylvain has slept around long enough to know a third wheel when he sees one. They’re children on the hill crying over sticks and flags and Sylvain is nothing at all. 

“My money’s on you” he continues. “Sure, he liked to call me names, but at the end of the day it was really you he had a bone to pick with. Never knew why.”

Dimitri’s silence grates. He really does hate that about him, how he shuts up completely when he’s all keyed-up over something and leaves everyone scrambling after him. He’d love to give him shit for it one day. 

He turns and looks Dimitri in the eye. He isn’t wearing a scrap of clothing and is probably freezing judging by the way his fingertips are turning red, but he’s too stubborn to put anything on. He hates that too, his strange self-flagellation rituals. He would sit in the forest and let the wolves devour him in the blink of an eye if given the chance, offer to dissect himself so they can chew him up faster. Sylvain tries to haul him back to safety, stumbles over his own feet. Dimitri refuses to walk. Sylvain isn’t the one he wants to be saved by. 

“What will you do? You will see him again.”

Dimitri deflates, curling in on himself which would be funny for a man of his stature if it wasn’t so pathetic. “I will face him as the king of the country he betrayed. Have I any other choice?” 

Sylvain leans against the rail, the stone cold through the thin fabric draping his lower back. “You don’t sound like you believe it.”

“I do not know what I will do. I could not tell you a single thing that I would believe wholeheartedly right now. Does that make me weak?” He rakes a hand through his hair, the strands highlighted a pale gold in the moon. “Tell me, what will you do if you face him?”

“Say hi to an old friend” he chuckles. Sylvain hates to break a promise, but a promise only counts when it goes both ways. 

Dimitri drags himself to his side at the railing, his hair a despondent mop blowing in the wind. “You cannot mean that.”

“Sure I do.” he scratches his neck. “I’d hate to kill someone I’ve known for so long.” 

“A little honesty would do you well.”

“Yeah?” He finds it hilarious how Dimitri can just say shit like that with a straight face. “I’ll give it a shot.” 

“I will hold you to that.” 

The wind cuts sharply in the gaps between the sheet and his thighs, making him shiver. It makes an odd noise when it blows fast, an awful sort of wailing choked by the spires and slopes of the castle. It could be a war cry or the keening at a funeral; beside him Dimitri closes his eyes.

Felix separates into shelves as well. Felix when they were young; clingy and dribbly who would burst into tears whenever Sylvain showed up with a new bruise he couldn’t hide, locking pinkies and making promises in the middle of the night when the dark was so full he couldn’t see the corners of his room. Glenn’s death goes off like a bomb and sticks its shrapnel in everyone around. Felix now is a stranger, a passer-by in his periphery. Felix is a shiny metal trinket melted down and honed into a fine set of hunting knives. Sylvain choked on the ache in his chest when he thinks too hard about him, or Ingrid, or even Dimitri to a point because he knew them once, but now he doesn’t, and he won’t ever again. 

“You love him, don’t you,” Sylvain says without looking over. Dimitri lowers his head.

“I cannot stop. I never could, even when faced with his betrayal. He very well could be plotting my demise, and still I would not be able to keep myself from wanting him. I am an awful man, Sylvain,” he chuckles, an ugly hollow thing caught in his throat. “A king who is more concerned with love than the war that will destroy his country.”

He’s happy for him, he thinks. For him to suffer so horribly yet still love so purely _ ,  _ untouched by whatever darkness whittles away at him day by day astounds him.  _ I am an awful man Sylvain, so what does that make you? _

“Love makes people do funny things” he says like it’s not a totally bullshit answer. He’s out of his depth, but Dimitri still looks at him like he’s not talking so he won’t realize that Sylvain isn’t saying a goddamn word. 

“Have you ever been in love?” 

He wants to laugh, or scream, or strangle Dimitri with the sheet around his waist. Love is a very convenient word people like to use to get between his legs and nothing much more beyond that. 

“No.” He doesn’t look up, because there’s a chance Dimitri might be concerned. “Surprised, huh?” 

“None of the women you dated…?”

He shakes his head. “Not one. Sure I’ve said some lines, but they don’t mean much at the end of the day.” 

“That is cruel of you to do.”

So is letting someone else’s name slip when he’s fucking him raw, but he doesn’t even seem ashamed. Not that Sylvain is going to call him out for it. Dimitri is hardly the first one. 

“Sure, sure. Next time I say ‘I love you’ to someone I’ll really mean it.”

Dimitri sighs. “I do hope that you find someone, someday.”

“If only so I’ll quit my philandering, eh?” he smirks. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“For you,” he says, and puts a hand on his shoulder. It feels a bit like dying. 

“Yeah… Alright.” He lets his grin drop. “For me.” 

He waits for Dimitri to remove his hand, but it never comes. Not even an hour ago he was pinning him down to the bed with a grip so hard his wrists will be bruised for days. Now his touch flutters like a bird on a branch, the only source of warmth in the night. He simultaneously wants to bask in it and break it off. 

“I’m sorry,” his voice comes out as a whisper, catching at his teeth. “I can’t be him for you.”

Dimitri doesn’t say a thing. Sylvain doesn’t need him to. He doesn’t lift his hand all the same. 

  
  


* * *

Ingrid’s death is a stone thrown in the soft dirt of a forest, a muffled keening hidden behind heavy velvet curtains. She liked to roll down hills and Sylvain would have to spend ages getting her to sit still enough to pick the burrs out of her hair. She used to snort when she laughed, and squeal when her pegasus dipped too fast. He didn’t know the person at the academy well at all, but it was still her to a point. The report says she was shot out of the sky, fell sixty feet down and cracked open like a ripe fruit on the ground. The paper burns in his grip. The messenger backs away. 

The Duke fell as well, he explains to the war council, defending the gates of Arianrhod. He can very well guess who landed the final blow. He met Felix when he was four and so shy he would hide in the swathe of his father’s cloak, constantly clinging to his leg until he was coaxed out. Felix cuts him down, slashes his sword across his throat and steps over the body that falls from its horse. Dimitri’s eyes go wide. The wood under his fingers breaks. Sylvain concludes his report. 

The Imperial army will march to Tailtean. The hard set of Dimitri’s jaw insists that they will intercept them. What did he say all those months ago?  _ I will face him as the king of the country he betrayed.  _ Sylvain has no choice but to agree. 

They’re going to die. He is going to die. If the Imperials can crack Arianrhod as easily as the nuts scattered on the floor of the kitchens then Fhirdiad is nothing but a joke. Tailtean is a body left in the sun. Hope is an easy emotion to categorize. He planned to die and let his father divide the entrails. Now it is a certainty, tangible enough that he could mark a date on his calendar if he felt inclined. Clean up his room one last time, polish his lance, pet his horse and say goodbye before he gets a sword in the gut. 

He hopes it happens before Dimitri kicks it. Can’t imagine why. 

He is going to die.

Dimitri is going to die.

Dimitri-

He can’t die. For all that he’s a walking corpse the notion is a complete absurdity, a formula that only twists back on itself. Bite at its tail. Devours it whole. Dimitri is a body hoisted on the shield it once held and Sylvain- 

- _ have to protect him you promised didn’t you you have to protect him it’s all you’re good for you’re useless you have to have to have to let him use you don’t break this promise you BLOODY FUCKING LIAR-  _

Dimitri falls into his arms when he comes through the door, unlocked and unguarded like they always are, and buries his face in Sylvain’s bony chest like a kid wailing into the arms of their parents after a nightmare. Sylvain curls around him in lieu of anything else. If Dimitri listens hard enough he might hear nothing at all. 

He wants to run. Build Dimitri in a cage so nothing can ever touch him again. They tear out of Faerghus on horseback and forget the war ever existed, crests become something from a storybook. They can get a farm, paint the sky in blue, raise animals, grow something nice. Fruit, he’s thinking. Morfis plums. Albinean berries. Cut out the guts. Divide up the remains and throw it to the birds. Dimitri pins him to the bed and takes what he’s owed. 

Dimitri goes out at dusk, stands and stares at the southern horizon and waits until Sylvain takes him by his hand to bed. The sky is blue. Sylvain is a muted palette against it. 

His tears burn holes in his shirt and soak through to his skin. Sylvain isn’t prepared to handle grief this raw. If he takes his hands away and stares at his palms they’ll be coated in red. Plum red. Blood red. Dimitri is eight and Sylvain is eleven and Dimitri has just skinned his hands after - _ he _ pushed him. Sylvain doesn’t know what else to do to wipe away the tears than do what he knows best and spout pretty platitudes until people start ticking the way they usually do. 

He’s a hypocrite and a coward and a liar. Dimitri sobs into his shirt until the sun rises. His legs go numb. 

* * *

“You’re upset again. I can tell.” 

Dimitri looks up at him, squinting in the light casting from behind Sylvain. He takes a seat on the grass beside where Dimitri is curled up and picking at the laces of his boots. Dimitri frowns.

“How can you always tell?”

Sylvain taps his forehead. “Eyebrows. You always scrunch them together when you’re upset.”

Dimitri reaches up and pats his forehead. Sylvain smirks as his face takes a comical journey as he slowly realizes that he’s right.

“You know, even if you’re stupid you can be pretty smart sometimes.”

“Oi” he growls playfully, pinching Dimitri’s ear. “Respect your elders, huh?

“No way” he says with the beginnings of a grin tugging at his lips. 

“There’s your smile! Now tell me what’s up. Did Glenn prank you again? I’ll give that guy a talking to.”

“Nothing like that. It’s just” he lets out a depressed puff. “Felix got really angry with me the last I saw him.” 

“Seriously? He’s always angry about something these days.”

“Yes, well” Dimitri shrugs. “I think he’s jealous.”

Sylvain laughs. “Jealous? Is this about Duscur?” 

Dimitri nods. “He said that it wasn’t fair that Glenn got to go, but he had to stay home. I pointed out that his father was staying back as well, and I think that made him quite angry.” 

Annoyance tugs at him for a brief second. Felix really can be a spoiled brat, always complaining about  _ Glenn said this  _ or  _ Glenn did that.  _ Sylvain chips his teeth on a good day.

He keeps up his grin. “It’s mostly just politics, isn’t it? I doubt you’ll do much sightseeing.” 

“I know… I tried to explain but he just stormed off!” Dimitri flops down and rubs at his face. “I don’t know what to do. He can be awfully stubborn sometimes.” 

“He’s too attached to you to stay mad for long. Write him a letter or something, and I guarantee by the time you get back he’ll be riding your coattails again.”

“That seems awfully simple.” 

“It’s a pretty straightforward argument. Not like you killed someone in front of him or anything.” he picks at a chip in the nail of his thumb. “‘Sides, there’s not much you can do besides smuggle him on the trip. Just let him know how you’re feeling and you two can hash things out later.” 

“Why do you always say things like that?” he grimaces. 

“What did I say now?”

“Stuff about killing people. You can get so morbid sometimes.”

“Oh I see” he drawls exaggeratedly. “I help you out and you nitpick me, huh? I think you’ll have to write me an apology letter too.”

“No way. I’m too busy with packing and stuff.”

“Sure, sure, next you’ll be too busy to see me, and we’ll drift apart and never be friends again!” Sylvain tears at the grass and flings the blades at Dimitri, watching in amusement as he fails around. 

Dimitri sits up. “I’ll write to him, I guess. I really will miss him. And you” he adds, slumping. “You always manage to get me out of these sorts of things.”

Sylvain chuckles. “That’s what I’m here for, right? Watching your back includes helping when you bungle things up with your crush.”

Dimitri flushes a great red as he swats at Sylvain. “He’s not- no! What? No! Weird!”

“Ah yes, the words of pure honesty.”

“Don’t tease me!”

“You make it awfully easy.”

“I do not!” he pouts. “I’m not gonna bring you back a souvenir anymore.”

“Aw, come on. After I helped you out?” he pastes a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “You know I don’t get to travel.” 

“You get to see us.”

“Yeah, but you know how it is with my family” he tugs at his hair. “My old man hasn’t left the border in ages. I’ll be much the same.”

“I’ll visit you!” Dimitri says like a hyper dog tugging at his sleeve with the kind of earnest look in his eyes that makes Sylvain’s stomach clench. 

“Alright,” Sylvain really smiles this time. Maybe it comes out awkward, but Dimitri is kind enough not to comment. He’s really going to miss the kid. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

* * *

_ He remembers the day his brother died. He hates giving him that sort of luxury. Miklan sure as hell wouldn’t care if one of his attempts managed to finish him off. He wouldn’t be kept up at night. His hands, their hands, real hands skating across his body attached to faces of people pretending to love him to get into his pants for the night. He’d love to tell them off, but that’s unrealistic. Especially for someone like him, hm? _

_ He remembers the look on his face, the tendrils of pitch creeping out of the lance, the screaming as he was shred from inside out, his eyes, his hands, his mangled body on the floor. The snow, the trees, the circle of sky cut out as his hands bled like spilt wine, the hands in his hair, the knife in his gut, corner him where no one’s looking, have his cronies hold him down- it’s not like anyone really cares about what happens to him anyways, right? this would have stopped a long time ago _

_ It’s the night before they ride to Tailtean, and he sees his brother in the mirror.  _

_ The haircut might be shitty, but it doesn’t really matter when he’ll be dead in a day. No one has the time for a good haircut these days. A dagger and a mirror will do. All those knights out there, probably thinking the same morbid shit. They’ll be like his brother soon. He wonders if he’ll feel the same thing; nothing at all.  _

_ “You are cutting your hair?” _

_ Dimitri appears in the periphery of the mirror. He’s a little annoyed that he didn’t have the courtesy to knock before barging in, but he can’t do much to tell him off. _

_ “Thought I should clean up for the Imperials. You know, make it nice for them.”  _

_ “That is an odd reasoning for a haircut.” _

_ He can never tell if Dimitri sees through him or not. He’s dangerous like that; never gives any indication when he’s playing along. _

_ “These are odd times. Did you need something?” _

_ He’s closer now- too close, he can feel the heat of his body at the back of his neck. _

_ “I wanted to see you.” _

_ What, for one final fuck before they ride off to die? He never thought Dimitri much the sentimental type.  _

_ “Why?” _

_ He wraps his arms around his shoulders, planting what feels like a kiss on the top of his head. Through the long strands of blonde hair draping over his reflection is shocked, a deer caught at the sharp end of an arrow. This- this isn’t right. This is far too domestic, affectionate- whatever words are reserved for people that can love each other. Dimitri’s arms around him feel a bit like dying. _

_ “Is it not enough to want to be with you one last time?” _

_ He wants to scream. He wants to die. Dimitri’s burying kisses at his neck and spouting lines out of a romance novel, and he can’t feel a single thing at all.  _

_ “I-” _

_ He’s too gentle, too kind. He’ll eat him alive. _

_ “Let me take care of you, Sylvain” _

_ Like he really means it, like he isn’t whispering sweet nothings to a rotting corpse. _

_ “Just this once” _

_ Felix once asked him what drowning felt like. He said it didn’t feel like anything else at all. _

_ “I love you, Sylvain,” _

_ “Sylvain,” _

_ “Sylvain,” _

_ “Sylvain-” _

  
  
  


* * *

Dimitri’s form glares white and blue, wholly recognizable even from where Sylvain stands aways back from the main body of the army. Areadbhar burns a strange light in his grip. Dedue gives Sylvain a solemn nod before going to join him. Even if they win, and Goddess knows that’s an absurd idea, they will never see each other again. Neither of them plan to survive.

His horses ears twitch nervously through the gaps in her armour. Above, the clouds gather en masse in black. He isn’t superstitious by any means, but surely this is an omen of some sort. 

Dimitri gives one final sweeping glance at the soldiers behind him, and if Sylvain was the self-flagellating type he would have thought that his gaze lingered on his face. His heavy cloak flares out as he walks forward, and as the first drops of rain start to fall Sylvain thinks it will be the last time he sees his face. 

It isn’t though, not really, as even on the battlefield that sorrowful look oozing finality sears itself onto his eyelids. Every footsoldier, mage, cavalier he cuts down bears the same mask, the unique face of a person who knows death well. The Lance burns its brand into his grip, the rain pelts his face and pours down the back of his neck and still all he sees is  _ Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri,  _ like this is a fucking joke to him standing in the fort like the professor at the head of the class-  _ We both know you can do better than this. I want to see you try your hardest, okay?  _

The real professor cleaves through the kingdom forces with the grace and ease of a dancer. Their sword snaps and whirls, the faint glow of white magic emanating from their free hand. Edelgard is the brightest colour on the field. Behind her and slightly to the left of Ferdinand, Felix stands a muted teal. 

Sylvain remembers when his hair was long enough that Ingrid and Dimitri would get a kick out of tying it into knots. Now, there’s barely enough to stick into a tail. He recalls the Fraldarius line taking pride in their hair, only cutting it short out of a sense of dishonour. He can’t bring himself to care. He knows Dimitri sees Felix too. If the last glance was reserved for him, then Felix receives the whole banquet. Dimitri feels too much, bleeds in excess. Sylvain can’t begrudge him for that. If love was an ocean, Dimitri would be a bloated corpse. 

Edelgard makes a beeline for Dimitri. Felix follows suit. Felix; with his sword and bow and the rage taken in fistfuls. Sylvain doesn’t know if he bleeds at all anymore, if he keeps himself afloat or stays firmly on land. Felix stares at Dimitri, and Dimitri looks back at him. Sylvain feels like a voyeur; the type that the girls who liked to get their hands all over him in front of other people just loved. 

He draws his horse in a charge converging on a point. Dimitri stands parallel to the Imperial army, his eyes frantically flitting between the advancing forces and the hulking beast Dedue has warped to, casting his shadow over the lone fort where Dimitri stands. Sylvain tastes bile in his throat. His horse crashes parallel, his Lance aiming its hungry blade at the back of Felix’s neck- cut him lengthwise, string him up for catharsis- Edelgard blurs red towards Dimitri. Red like velvet, red like berries, blood red, Imperial red, predictability red- Felix prepares to face him. Recognition is a stain on his cheek. So much for promises, eh? 

Ferdinand blocks his blow. The stairs of the fort run bronze in the rain. 

Dimitri watches. Dimitri doesn’t move a muscle. Dimitri strains at his spot, like duty is a tangible thing holding him down. He watches as Sylvain fights, watches as he staggers, watches as the Lance shatters in fiery embers in the air-

_ I do hope you find someone, someday.  _

_ So I’ll quit my philandering, eh? _

_ For you. _

Predictability is blood on his teeth. The fresh gash across his chest sputters in the wet air. His head connects with the stone like a ragdoll thrown into a lake with a stone sewed to one end. Dimitri’s eyes are thrown wide through the haze descending across his vision. Sylvain tastes the raw horror across his face and feels like laughing. Felix gets the banquet. Serve his guts on a platter made from Dimitri’s armour. Afterwards they can run to the kitchens to beg for a roll, like they used to when

they were children

they all were,

weren’t they?

Ingrid tugs on Felix’s braid, Felix pushes her over, they both land on Dimitri, and Sylvain

is nothing at all

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dimitri’s armour is a bright thing that swallows the edges around him. If Felix was a set of hunting knives, then Dimitri is the castle armoury. Sylvain is a pathetic thing strewn across the steps of the fort, a rodent a cat would drag in by the scruff. The air is a handful of coins. The lake at the peak of summer, simultaneously frigid and the warmest thing he’d ever felt. Miklan holds him down. 

He has a scar on his eyebrow from when his head nicked the bottom. Felix asks him what drowning feels like, pushes him under with two hands. He doesn’t know. Maybe this is love, the same way Dimitri’s head falls neatly to the ground. Paint the sky in red, drown in the reflection; that’s love, he thinks. 

It’s not far. The sharp edge of the stone registers distant the way a mountain is close. The Imperial army has no regard for the dead. Areadbhar is a bone poking through skin. Dimitri’s hand is bare, open and splayed to the downpour. Dimitri’s head on the ground, agonized and furious and sorrowful and everything else at once. That’s what drowning is. He takes Dimitri’s hand. 

This is what drowning is. 

**Author's Note:**

> ADD is a bitch. I'm astounded that I managed to crack out a chapter of hundred billion corpses a week when this is roughly the same length and took me a month and a half. 
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mumagi)
> 
> [judgement day](https://open.spotify.com/track/4WcOBpTVcCVAK5WmcRRfzs)
> 
> shamless plug for my [sylvain spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5g4cRPj6SVPh8W3OKSvuy3?si=PBzsh4mORW-g3c9B6T136Q) carefully curated over the ages


End file.
